“Feel better?”
“Yes, thank you.” Maurita yawned, hugged Buffin, and sat up. “Much better.” Did Detective Davis know how soothing her treatment was? And this little cat, he was amazing, healing in a different way.
There was a light knock, and the door opened. Another detective entered, a tall woman, as slim as a model in her uniform, and beautiful, long black hair shining down her back, as sleek as Maurita’s should be when she took care of it. She carried a black camera bag open at the top with a dark garment sticking out, perhaps a jacket.
“I’m Detective Ray. Kathleen.” She put out her hand, shook Maurita’s bruised hand carefully, and sat down beside her. “I brought you some clothes.” She opened the camera bag, took out a folded suit coat, nearly black but not quite. Police blue. Maurita glanced at Juana, frowning.
Davis said, “See what you think of our plan.”
In the dim shadows of Seaver’s Antiques, Courtney, in sleep, had slipped away from her nightmares about the dangers to her daddy, into softer dreams. Dulcie continued to talk to her, reminding her how bold and strong Joe Grey was, trying to ease her into happier environs, to help the soft night soothe the young calico until she was peaceful once more. As the moon sank lower toward the sea, Courtney and her mother dozed.
But soon Courtney woke again and sat up, her mind full of the sharpest dream yet, a spark of gold shining among ragged logs, blood on the sand and on the grass. She couldn’t make out the golden spark, but she saw moonlight touch a woman’s face, her delicate earlobe ripped and bleeding, torn in half as if by a scythe from some medieval tale, rough steel through tender skin. She saw the vision for only an instant, then it was gone—and that’s when she heard the sound. The same sound she’d heard days before, the faint hum of a car stopping behind the building, a ring of the upstairs phone, Ulrich’s voice as he answered, and then Ulrich padding down the stairs barefoot or in slippers, quietly opening the inside door to the storage room, closing it behind him. She heard the outside door open to the driveway; it didn’t close.
Ulrich’s voice and that of another man. Brief words. The sound of the safe being dialed. She heard it open and then close again. The back door closed. She heard Ulrich lock it, and the car pulled away.
Before the sounds and voices, had she been dreaming? That shifting ray of moonlight among blood and sand. Had she glimpsed the torn-away earring? No one knew what it looked like, Courtney thought. Joe Grey hadn’t seen it, he’d seen only the torn ear and the flowing blood. He had told her what he heard at MPPD, that when the coroner and Detective Kathleen Ray examined the other earring, the crushed gold wires embedded in Maurita’s other lobe, no one could be sure what shape it might have been; that puzzle was now at the jewelers, to see what they could make of it. Her daddy said it might mean nothing at all, but the earrings were part of the case and should not be overlooked.
As the moon eased lower, its glow touched Kit and Pan where they slept in their tree house. It touched Joe Grey in his tower. All had arrived back in the village, Ryan taking Kit and Pan home from the hospital, where the two quietly snuggled down in their tree house. They didn’t go inside to wake Lucinda and Pedric, to launch into a long tale at this late hour.
Charlie had brought Joe Grey home, leaving Officers McFarland and Crowley still at the ranch working the scene, photographing and printing Nevin’s car, photographing the stall, taking blood samples. The three cats were still edgy with the emotions of the night, unease born of the storm of human anger at the Luther house, the smell of human blood, the rage of shouting and hard-hitting fists—and for Joe the thud of the stallion’s hooves striking human flesh, nightmare images that, even in sleep, made him growl and made his ears go flat, made his fur stand stiff.
But Courtney and Dulcie slept peacefully now, feeling sheltered and safe, mother and daughter snuggled together, Courtney willing herself to forget the ugly dream of the woman in the grave, forget the hate that lay beyond her cloistered world of velvet and carved rosewood. They slept soothed by the magic of the tales they had told each other, Dulcie’s dreamy fairy tales, and Courtney’s sharp images from her past and then from the underground that Kit and Pan had described. On that journey into the Netherworld, her two friends had seen wonders beyond most cats’ imagining. Wonders that Dulcie wished Courtney didn’t know. When Kit started telling an adventure, it was nearly impossible to stop her.
That evening, listening to Courtney’s retelling of Kit’s tales, Dulcie had found it hard to quiet her own distress. Courtney relished those stories; she was so intense with longing to see those wonders that Dulcie didn’t like to think where this might lead.
But maybe it was better that Courtney’s thoughts were trapped, for a little while, in the Netherworld’s wild and impossible lands, than trapped in the dreams of fame and stardom that Ulrich Seaver fed her—visions that might lead to far more misery than any Netherworld haunts.
16
It was earlier when Joe Grey woke in his tower, listening. Downstairs, the phone had rung once, in the master bedroom. It hadn’t awakened Clyde, Joe could hear him still snoring; but he could hear clearly Ryan’s sleepy voice as she picked up. Outside Joe’s windows, clouds had gathered so thickly that there were only occasional smears of moonlight. When Charlie had brought him home, he had leaped out of her SUV, had gone straight up to the roof, to his tower, and collapsed among his pillows yawning hugely.
“They did?” Ryan was saying. “She’s coming there with you? Well, that’s good news.” She sat up in bed holding the phone, pushing back her dark, rumpled hair. “She managed to unlock the front door? But she’s all right, Juana? She didn’t mind being brought into the station?”
She listened, then, “Trying to look in the windows. Was that her attacker? After all your trouble to hide her, the guy tracked her there? But why did she run? Why didn’t she call the station?”
Another silence, then, “Maybe the patrols will corner him.” Then, “You do?” She smiled. “Sure you can. That will be a blast. Let us know when.” They talked for a few minutes more. Ryan said, “I will,” then a little click as she put the phone back in its cradle. Joe peered down over the edge of his cat door, watched her stretch out again and pull the covers up as if to catch another few winks. Clyde was still snoring.
All over the village, Joe thought, while night patrols searched for Maurita’s stalker—and had searched for Maurita—other officers would soon be getting ready for first watch. The tomcat felt smug that he didn’t have to answer to MPPD hours and rules, and that he didn’t have to shave, shower, and put on a uniform.
But, too curious about Maurita to stay in his warm nest for long, Joe Grey gave his sleek coat a couple of licks, skipped breakfast, and headed for the station.
He had known that Maurita was getting better in the nursing home, word passed quickly from John Firetti among their friends. But to know that a man, likely the same man who nearly killed her, had found where she was, must have triggered her fear all over again—frightening her enough to run.
Well, she was with the cops now, and safe.
Making straight for MPPD, Joe hit the roofs running—hoping that Mabel Farthy, their motherly desk clerk, was back at work after her flu and had brought something good to slake his hunger. Sugar doughnuts? Oatmeal cookies? Fried chicken? Hoped he could get at the goodies before the guys in the department scoffed them all up.
Leaping to the courthouse roof, racing for the oak tree at the far end, he was backing down its rough bark when he paused, clinging among the branches. He didn’t need to peer inside to know that Mabel wasn’t at her desk; even through the bulletproof glass doors, EvaJean Simpson’s scolding voice made his fur crawl. The temp he hated, whom they all hated. If she ever brought him breakfast, it would be laced with strychnine.
A squad car stood in front, beside the Firettis’ car. Officer Green, Maurita, and the Firettis were just headed in through the glass doors. Maurita was beautiful, even in cotton scrubs, her bruises nearly
gone, the thin woman looking far better than she had lying half dead and nearly buried in the sand. She was carrying Buffin close against her shoulder. Only the young cat spotted Joe Grey, or caught his scent. His ears went up, he gave his daddy a silly cat grin, then turned innocently away. Joe wanted to slip in, too, but one look at EvaJean, and he stayed where he was. She was in a hell of a temper. He backed down the tree and peered in through the glass, cringing at the clerk’s bossy voice. He watched Officer Green urge Maurita and the Firettis on down the hall, saw Juana’s door open and they all disappeared inside, EvaJean still fussing. The door had already closed as she shouted, “And get that cat out of there or I’ll call an officer who will.”
That made Joe laugh. Anyone in the department would offer ear rubs and back scratches, but no one would toss a cat out, certainly not one of Joe Grey’s own kittens.
Joe backed into the bushes when a squad car pulled up in the red zone. Officers Carlos and Haley opened its back door and ushered out a tattooed prisoner, at least six feet four and hard muscled. They had him in handcuffs and leg irons but he was still fighting them, he was so angry he was probably on drugs, which would make him harder than hell to handle. Joe knew better than to try to slip past this bunch, which might explode despite the chains—but against better judgment he was through the door behind them anyway and into the holding cell hoping they wouldn’t put the guy in there with him.
It took a long time to book the prisoner, he wouldn’t answer questions without being strong-armed. They should have been booking him in the back by the jail. He fought the fingerprint routine, he swore he didn’t have a driver’s license, they had to frisk him for it. Twice Joe pushed out through the bars and started to make a dash down the hall, but the guy began to fight again, and the tomcat drew back. He could have made it fine, he thought, but a cop had set up a folding chair outside Juana’s office to guard Maurita, and how could a cat eavesdrop now?
He waited forever until the prisoner was dragged away down the hall to the jail, and until Maurita’s guard rose as Davis’s door opened, and moved away as if on an errand. In that moment Joe fled down the hall and in through the crack in Max’s door. He had slid deep under the console into the shadows when he heard a knock on Juana’s door and could smell tea and sweet rolls. He heard the guard sit down again. The best he could do, to eavesdrop, was catch every third or fourth word, he couldn’t make much of it. Someone else went in and out, he could smell bacon and eggs, which didn’t help his hungry mood much. Two women talking. Then someone left heading down the hall, then silence for a little while, so quiet that Joe dozed, jerked awake now and then by the creak of the guard’s metal chair. He woke fully when he heard the steps of two women leave the office. He watched Detectives Juana Davis and Kathleen Ray head down the hall and out the rear door. He could just see them through the bars as they crossed the back street toward Juana’s condo. He slipped out of Max’s office, following them, ignoring the guard. Kathleen was carrying a camera case, slightly open. As they started up the condo steps they were joined by two fellow officers. They’d left Maurita alone in Davis’s office? But the deputy was guarding her.
Curious, Joe eased behind the officer’s back and into Davis’s office, listening to the faint click of computer keys.
He faced Kathleen’s back where she worked at Juana’s computer, her long black hair hanging over the chair. Officer Bonner sat on the couch reading aloud a report as if Kathleen was typing it for him—but Kathleen couldn’t be here. By this time she’d be in Juana Davis’s condo. No way she could be here, working at Davis’s desk.
With Kathleen sitting right here, who the hell was with Davis? No one in the office looked like Kathleen, tall and as slim as a model, long black hair like Maurita’s, like . . .
Joe Grey’s eyes widened. He leaped to the desk, stepped around behind the computer monitor and stared into the woman’s face.
Kathleen looked back at him, startled. “What? What, Joe Grey? What’s that expression, what’s the matter with you?”
He slipped around the monitor and rubbed his face against hers, comforted by her familiar scent. The computer itself and the desk still smelled as they should, smelled like Juana Davis. When he leaped to the couch beside Bonner, the scent at the other end of the cushions took Joe a minute to sort out: yes, it smelled pleasantly of Maurita. A pair of blue scrubs lay over a chair, a pair of white nurse’s shoes were pushed underneath. He looked up when Davis entered alone. Kathleen looked around at her. “All settled?”
“Clean sheets,” Juana said. “Maurita has the other twin bed in my room, two officers to rotate in my office-guest-room. That’ll be pretty crowded. I’m sending my two cats to board with the Firettis, Ryan’s picking them up. And she’s dropping Rock off at my place. He might lack a little in some finer points of training, but he’s a good guard dog. And a good loud alarm,” she said with a warm Latino smile. “And he likes cats just fine. But my two cats’ view of dogs . . . they don’t like them so much. They’ll be better with John and Mary. Ryan’s bringing Rock’s special diet and a leash and choke chain. She’ll teach Maurita Rock’s commands, which she and our officers will need to know.”
Joe Grey didn’t think much of the condo as Maurita’s hiding place. Two walls of second-floor windows with easy locks, the windows on the north open to a small rooftop surrounded by staggered walls and crannies and taller roofs, a little retreat where anyone could stand, looking in.
Between the condo’s front door and the side windows, glass sliders opened to a wide deck, from which Juana could see the back of MPPD. That, at least, was screened and roofed with wire mesh so Juana’s two cats could play outside. A straggly young bougainvillea vine led up to it. A cat could bypass the deck and slip right up onto the open roof beneath the side windows.
Could a prowler do the same, crawl up that flimsy vine and over? They would have to be lightweight, and agile.
But when he thought of sharp Weimaraner teeth and of well-used service revolvers resting in the officers’ holsters, he guessed that would be a hazardous climb, even if Maurita’s stalker was superathletic. Smiling, he hoped Rock and the cops got a good bloody crack at him.
17
Early sun shone in through the display windows and big glass doors of Seaver’s Antiques. The store wasn’t yet open but passersby, glancing in, could see Bert, in his brown store smock, vacuuming the ornate rugs and carefully dusting the intricately carved furniture and brightly glazed porcelain. Bert was quiet and shy but he was a good assistant, he knew his antiques, and he had a businesslike and friendly way with the clients; he wasn’t reluctant to shop the auctions for a special piece for a customer, or to call around the country for an item a client wanted. Now as he did the daily cleaning he paid no attention to Courtney; he knew where she was, could see her sleeping in a stack of pillows. The doors were all locked, and he had strict instructions to keep her inside. He did not see Dulcie beneath the pillows, he had no idea she was in the building. When he heard the garage doors slide open he turned, smiling. Ulrich was back. Courtney raised her head to look, then tucked her nose into her paws again as if she were asleep.
Where, she thought, had Ulrich been all night? Did he have a girlfriend on the side, besides his supposed wife? She felt Dulcie wriggle deeper under the pillows and slip to the floor, heard her brush against the furniture looking for a way to escape. Courtney belonged here. Dulcie didn’t. Her presence would stir questions as fierce as nesting hornets.
They heard the outer door open and close, footsteps coming through the workroom then the inner door opened and they heard voices, two people coming in, and one was a woman. That made the cats stiffen with alarm. Bert kept vacuuming but gave the arrivals a smile and a wave—while behind the couch Dulcie vanished, racing for the powder room. Praying she was unheard over the continuing sound of the vacuum, she pushed open the powder room door and was on the counter at the window. Fighting it open a few inches, with fierce claws she ripped the corner of the new screen.
Made a hole big enough to slide through, the rough edges tearing at her tabby fur. She pushed the window closed behind her but not enough to lock. She hit the crate below, leaped soundlessly onto the sand and kept running, into the weedy, tree-shaded park.
Courtney lay listening to the couple. Was this Ulrich’s wife, did he have a wife after all? Or was this his lover, visiting while his wife was absent?
Absent for good? Courtney thought. Or could this be the victim from the grave, healed and able to move about once more? That didn’t seem likely, as badly as Joe said she was hurt. And why would she be here with Seaver, if he had attacked her so cruelly? So many questions. If she was his girlfriend, if he had nearly killed her, she couldn’t be dumb enough to let him lure her to him again.
And if this was his wife, returned from some trip, Courtney didn’t know whether to hide from the woman or play “loving kitty,” and pretend to like her.
When Ulrich switched on the hall light and Courtney got a look at her, she was so elegant and neat, and with no scars or wounds, that Courtney was sure this wasn’t the injured woman.
Wife, Courtney thought, and she even smelled like the lavender scent in their bedroom. Wife or not, this was the woman who lived with him and who talked to him on the phone—he called her Fay. Fay Seaver? They talked about their grand plans for “the calico,” about exhibits and crowds and flights to New York, causing her shivers of excitement, but then of fear. With the two of them together keeping her captive, maybe she should escape right now, chase after Dulcie—if Dulcie had gotten out.
Cat Chase the Moon Page 12
